The arrival of the first dark night
after the first short day
always brings a punchline.

What time is it?

Did we lose an hour?
(If so, where did it go?)
Did I lose sleep?
Yes, that's right...
Fall back.

But I had so much work to do...

Is it later than I think
or is it earlier?

I scheduled a household painting job today.
I didn't know that it would take two coats and 
three times as long as I'd expected.
Though, I could have counted on that
and that I'd have preferred a different color

and that I'd paint other bits and pieces
around the house that were nagging me. 
After all, the paint brush and friends
were out and up for exercise.

Maybe it's paint fumes
or the aggravation of yesterday's super full moon
but what's next on the agenda is vague.

I need brain washing.
I must go down for a good night's sleep
whatever time it is
and hope for clarity in the morning. 

Will it be light in the morning
or dark?

I'll just have to close my eyes
and wait to see.


©2017 Suzanne McDermott (All Rights Reserved)

​There is no question about it.

​Some changes are predictable, 
Expected. 
Sumer, Fall, Winter, Spring, 
with plenty of time to 
turn, turn, turn.

Lately, though, change arrives in a flash. 
A drop dead, earthquake, bomb of a moment. 
Crash. 
If you're still upright, 
the resonance alone is enough to knock you down.

Time stands 
Still we keep revolving around the sun, 
the moon orbits 
and breezes sweep us up with their 
demanding, obligating pals:

Sleep 
Wake 
Eat 
Wash

While exploding now onto 
new playing fields we did not imagine. 
Why would we?

Just last year, (or was it the year before?) 
There was only fall around the corner 
coming with dry, bright leaves, 
crisp, fireplace air, 
fleecy sleeves and scarves, 
more moisturizer.

​
—Suzanne McDermott
21 September 20017

©2017 Suzanne McDermott/All Rights Reserved

​
The last days of white linen,
of wide brimmed hats 
slanted against the sun, 
stroll into the long weekend bookend of summer--
Toes in salt water and sand (if you’re lucky).

The last days of white linen
flap against still summer breezes and
wrinkle into sun-kissed skin
lined with all of the preceding seasons of stories
and marbled with yumminess, forgiven in the moment.

The last days of white linen
whisper of gentle folding and tucking away
with trust in the future.

This will be good next season.
I will be here to wear it.

Acrid, smoky, nearby smudges of fire will expire
with the rising of crocuses, daffodils.
Damp from the floods will evaporate after the
ice and snow (if you’re lucky).

The last days of white linen 
will resurrect their fabric and form
early next summer,
as they always have

In seasons of heat 
and bare shoulders.


—Suzanne McDermott
30 August 20017

©2017 Suzanne McDermott/All Rights Reserved